I Ain't Turning Back to Living that Old Life No More
by saoulbete
Summary: It is something you have thought before. You have voiced this thought before, voiced this thought to her, but here on the beach, her head thrown back laughing, it crashes into you like a tidal wave. It is a fact the same as the sun is setting, that the English language does not do justice to the wonders of the world because beautiful is simply too weak of a word to describe her.


a/n originally posted to Tumblr, i made a few edits and am reposting here. I have not forgotten about Rizzoli kid, nor about Peal of Distant Thunder, but Rizzoli Kid is just being a pain in the ass to write these days, and Peal, well, Peal has never been easy to write and I'm so incredibly nit-picky with it it takes forever to write 3 paragraphs because I'm constantly revamping it to make it absolutely perfect. This, this was already written, and i was just reminded of it when I was listening to OCMS again and struck again by this persistent mental image I have of Maura on the beach with a violin, head thrown back and laughing. So I dug it up and cleaned it up and here it is.

* * *

_She is beautiful._

When it hits you, it hits you suddenly, like a bolt of lightning going through you, suddenly you are sizzling, electrified with this new knowledge. It is not a gradual realization, the way these things are sometimes made out to be in storybooks. No, this is - one minute, you are simply on the beach with your family, huddled around a roaring campfire, music humming and buzzing around you and all was well. And then, suddenly, you are floored, shocked, rendered wholly immoveable as the sheer force of this revelation slams into you.

___She is beautiful. And you love her._

It is something that you have thought before; you have voiced this thought before, and you have voiced this thought to her before. But this, now, is different. Once upon a time, before, you had thought you'd known what beauty was; but now, seeing this, you realize just how weak, how _useless_ of a word beautiful is because it doesn't even come close to describing this woman. This beautiful – and you cannot come up with any other word because the English language just does not seem to do justice to expressing the wonders of the world- this beautiful creature that is standing next to you, toes curling in the soft sand, the nearly sheer skirt she is wearing billowing around her ankles. Her head is thrown back, and her hair catches both the glow from the bonfire and from the setting sun, exploding into a brilliant prism of golds and russet. But what strikes you most of all, over the resplendence of her hair, over the way that the soft cream camisole and kente print skirt accentuate the faintest tan and the sheer gold that shines through hazel eyes, is the way her one dimple is showing, etched deep as it has been all night even as she is joining in on the chorus of a song she has heard only once before.

There's the faint haze of good beer settling over everything, and you would love to be able to blame it for this sudden realization, even though you know that this is not the case. You have always thought her something special; it is simply that tonight, why you think her so is crashing into you all at once, a sudden rogue wave realization. But you are at peace with this fact. It doesn't scare you, like you have always thought such a realization would. It is simply - just a little – and it _is_ only a little - overwhelming to have this revelation hit you in this here and now. She is beautiful and you are in love with her, and these are the facts the same as the tide is rolling in and the drfitwood you are sitting on is damp and the sky is blue, she is beautiful and you love her. And you cannot prevent the easy smile from snaking across your face as this overwhelming moment passes, and you look back at where she is still standing, still laughing.

She has a fiddle grasped in one hand - the entire reason you managed to talk her into this. After you found it gathering dust in her basement she attempted to weasel away with comments of having not touched the instrument since high school. And you had laughed and played Old Crow Medicine Show for her over and over again until she managed to figure out a close enough approximation to a song you've always loved. And your brothers are on the other side of the fire, guitars in hand as they attempt to teach her something decidedly less family-friendly than Wagon Wheel, and she's giggling at their bickering over the lyrics to a song from youtube. And then - then she looks down at where you're sitting and her smile transforms into something that makes your stomach twist because you know that smile. It is the soft one that you've only ever seen aimed at yourself. "You were right." You cannot help but teasingly stick out your tongue as she admits that you have been, in fact, correct. "This is – fantastic."

You do not mention that you have gone out of your way to ensure that everything would be perfect. These nights are few and far between as you have aged. What used to once be something you could count upon at least once a week as a teenager - gathering together your brothers and your friends and heading to the little bit of beach that the bay provides - enough to build a campfire and sit around it with a case of beer, singing songs and forgetting about the weight of the world around you, if only for a little while. Now, these days, you cannot even remember the last time you had one of these evenings, and your brothers were equally as shocked when you ordered them to grab their beat-up guitars and join you.

The intro riff from Hotel California is your background noise as you try to sort through your feelings enough to settle upon the best course of action, and you can't help but wonder if they ___know._ If they've figured it out as well, that this Tiffany-twisted woman with the Mercedes Benz and seemingly all the pretty boys in Boston in her little back book is the one that you have somehow fallen for. You cannot help but wonder if they were far smarter than you have been in regards to something that you thought could never happen to you. And you know, now, in this moment as the cool wind blows through your hair, sweet summer sweat beading across your shoulderblades that this revelation, no matter if it is hell or if it is heaven, is something that you will never ever want to leave from. "You should play more often. You look cute with a fiddle."

"A Villaume is far more than just a fiddle. And I really haven't had any desire to play since I stopped taking lessons as a child. I was never particularly talented at anything musical." You give a slight snort of laughter. ___not particularly talented _is her way of making one of the very few faults of a perfect woman seem less of a fault. You don't mind. In fact, you love that there is something that doesn't involve work where you have an edge. You had loved the way her eyes had lit up as you hastily scrawled five lines across a page and in a spidery scrawl hummed the melody in your head as you notated something that was a rough approximation to the song they have kept cycling back to over the course of the evening. No, she is as tone-deaf as they come, able to play by ear about as well as Ray Charles sight-reads, and while able to play along to a sheet, you see it in her while she's joining your brothers in song - even when she relaxes and lets the music carry her away there is an unease, a tension that shows that this woman has never, and will never, be more than solidly amateur at music.

But she has agreed to this because you have asked it of her, and you laugh as Tommy calls her over attempting to coach her through Dust In the Wind, and you are at the ready to jump in with a distraction as your brother plucks out the note he wants her to play and expects her to be able to play it back, ready to find something else to do with the evening if there is any risk of her becoming frustrated and upset because music is the only thing that doesn't seem to come naturally to the dear Dr. Isles. But while two perfectly tawny brows furrow in concentration, it is simply that and nothing more than deep thought, as you watch her focus hard on what she is expected to play. And when Frankie finally counts them off, the twin twang of two cheap and battered guitars floats to you, backed by the low drone of a violin, and she looks so damn ___proud_ to be standing behind a campfire with your brothers playing a seriously stripped down version of Kansas missing all the embellishments of the original song, but so happy to be participating at all. When she looks over at you, proud grin faultering slightly as her eyes meet yours and you cannot help but beam proudly back, seeing the grin come back ten-fold the overwhelmingness of everything hits you again.

_She is beautiful, and you love her._

And it is a fact, same as the way the sun is setting to the west, the same that the moon has nearly risen in the east. It is a fact, the same as you are setting out the supplies for s'mores, the same as the kind of car you drive - these are all facts, truths. And the truth is that she is the most beautiful person you have ever seen in your life, and you love her more than you ever thought it possible to love before.

When they finally finish after teaching her part of the piano lines from Bohemian Rhapsody, resulting in a promise to show her Waynes World after she looks at the three of you, bewildered as to why all of you began headbanging halfway through a Queen song, she comes back to sit next to you, half-nestled against your side, a comforting warmth against the incoming chill of night. You take your time showing her the perfect way to make s'mores, unashamedly prolonging every moment of contact between you. "I never want tonight to end." She admits between nibbles of chocolate and graham cracker and marshmallow and you grin back at her.

"I know, right? If I could, I'd never leave this spot right here on this beach with you." You don't mean it to sound quite so soppy, and for a moment you are afraid that she has found you out. But even if she has, she merely looks over at you with one of those soft smiles, leans in closer to your warmth and looks at you calmly for one long moment before taking advantage of the way that ___that_ smile always seems to mesmerize you and it takes a full two seconds before you realize that the fingers that had been wrapped around your own half-melted gooey concoction of deliciousness are now grasping nothing but air and she suddenly has another s'more that is slowly disappearing through her lips. "Why I oughta-"

"What, detective?" There is a hint of overdone innocence belying the smirk on her face. "What ought you do?"

"You'll pay for this." She simply laughs, and you love that you can do that to her so easily. Bring out that bell like chime that you would do anything to hear every day for the rest of your life.

"And what exactly ___is_ the punishment for stealing your desert?" There's an innocently flirty tone laced through her words, and this is familiar ground for you. How often have you both tiptoed around this line? But tonight, tonight feels different from the tidal wave of realizations that have crashed into you.

And for once, you wonder if she has had the same moment of realization before. If she has ever been rendered immobile by the sheer force of thought. The very idea of her ever feeling a fraction of what you have realized tonight as you watched her laughing, head thrown back, sends a shiver down your spine and she nestles even closer to you. And now, if only for this moment, there is only you and only her, and in this fleetingly ephemeral moment the rest of the world, beyond the soft crackle of firewood and the droning crash of waves upon the shore has faded away into a hazy mist like the twilight ascending around you. There is only you and only her, only her soft skin against yours and long streaks of gold and russet making her eyes sparkle gold and fawn and for a moment you think that Robert Frost had it wrong, because this is proof that something gold can stay.

"That depends. Are you willing to provide restitution for the victim?"

"Of course. But I was under the impression that a good s'more has transcended pecuniary value." You cannot help the laugh that bubbles up at her response.

"Oh they have."

"So how should I make it up to you?" The question is soft, and there's a softness in her eyes that makes your heart want to leap out of your chest. And it is in that moment that you ___know_ she has thought the same, it is no longer a question, no longer a wonderment, but a fact, the same as the sand between your toes and your address and your chosen career, a fact the same as the price that you paid for the beer, the distance between this little strip of cove that will soon be overrun by teenagers in the coming weeks as summer creeps fully in. And somehow the idea of her loving you back – it terrifies you. Your love for her is something that you simply accept in stride, but if she feels the same - you can feel all that responsibility, the trust of being enough for her to love, for being someone she would want to love, to keep her heart safe, holy ___fuck_ is that an overwhelmingly scary concept.

But that soft smile is still on her face, and somehow it stops every one of these thoughts - every single question of how you could never possibly be enough for this woman - in their tracks. "Well," You manage to finally say, and it's quiet and deeper than your usual tone, "I can think of a good start-" it's cocky and presumptuous as you lean in, and you pause just out of reach to take in closed eyes and hitched breath and the creamy skin reflecting the firelight and you are floored by this, the realization of everything.

_She is beautiful, and you love her._

And you think that maybe, just maybe she loves you too, and that it is a fact of life. That this is the way this is supposed to be, that _you_ are supposed to be, that _you_ is supposed to now be used in the plural rather than the singular, the same way that ivy is supposed to grow on walls and peanut butter is supposed to go with marshmallow fluff , that cream is supposed to go with coffee, that you are supposed to go with her, that this is what you have been building towards your whole lives. But before those last few centimeters can be closed, your attention is broken by a sharp woop from where the tide is rolling in, and your eyes snap to where your brothers are wrestling in the surf, attempting to prove only to each other who is the best.

When you pull back there is no look of disappointment or regret. Simply that same soft smile that follows you down the sand. You can feel her watching as you properly school both young men in the proper tackle technique, your proud smile as you take both of them down faltering slightly as you look up to meet her eyes only to return tenfold when you catch her beaming proudly back at you, leaving all of you laughing and covered in sand and happier than you could ever remember being as you sit not on the log you have occupied most of the night, but right there in the sand as you stare up at the clear sky.

It's hard to make out most of the constellations with all the light from the city but as you lay back you can at least see some of the stars. And there's a moment before she joins you, laying back in the sand, staring up at the sky. "I never could figure out the pictures people are supposed to see." You admit, able to kind of sort of pick out the big dipper when asked, but anything beyond that is a mystery.

Her hand grasps yours as it begins an odd sort of connect the dots, piecing together the various stars into shapes that you still can't figure out how they got "chained goddess" from what you see as a triangle, but you love the soft rumble of her voice as she explains the mythology behind each group that is visible, and the warmth of her hand wrapped around yours as she gestures from star to star. And for a moment, the rest of the world does not exist. It is only you and her and the warm sand beneath and her hand in yours and that soft smile that has not left her face and the energy and the passion behind what she is explaining.

This is something you have always loved about her, the way that she can launch so effortlessly into a lecture that feels not at all like the boring drone you remember from your schooldays, but rather something that always makes you feel active and engaged. And while you tease sometimes, sarcastically purposely mispronounce whatever scientific terms she uses, you have always loved the way that this is second nature to her, and while she uses million dollar words when speaking, it never feels as though she is talking down to you. She, for whatever reason, views you as an intellectual equal, and that makes you love her far more than if she viewed you as her equal in beauty, or her equal in fitness, or her equal in any other arena. And while you still cannot make out the pictures she is attempting to show you, you love that she is even making the effort at all, willing to lay back in the sand with you, shoulder to shoulder, hands intertwined as she tells of Orion and his love for Artemis, and you know that you have, and will continue to slay any manner of beast to continue to impress her, lest this fascinatingly wonderful woman ever find reasons to be bored of you, you will do what it takes to see that she never tires of you – you're not entirely sure if you could bare it if she does.

You interrupt her telling of the Native American alternate myths of the great bear though, when your eye catches on something far away. It takes a moment to realize what it is, and confirm that the slowly tracking light in the sky is not a plane nor satellite, but something decidedly more natural and you grin at her. "Look." You say, tracking your enmeshed hands north along the heavens. "Wish." You command, staying silent for a moment as you offer up your own hopes silently.

"What did you wish for?" She asks, a long moment later and you chuckle softly.

"If you tell people what you wish for, it doesn't come true." She considers this for a moment, her thumb running a soothing pattern across your knuckles. She is looking at you again, that soft smile on her face, and you are floored, again, by her beauty. And she is moving towards you, and now you know it is your turn to freeze with your eyes closed and your breath hitched. And it is fleeting, but there are soft lips against yours and you want nothing more than to lose yourself in that softness over and over and over again. And this is so much better than anything you could have imagined, better than any of your hopes and dreams as you looked up at the sky and wished for this, with her. It only lasts a second before she is pulling away enough to shift your positions, changing so she is resting on top of you, looking down.

"Does that silly bit of superstition apply even if one finds that their wishes have already been realized?" And you cannot help but smile back.

"And what was it that you wished for?" And she merely grins back, barely illuminated by the dying remnants of the fire and it hits you again.

She is beautiful, and you love her.

And this is a fact, the same as the way that she fits perfectly against you, the way her lips are the softest things you have ever experienced, the way that the two of you are simply meant to be. It is a fact, the same as the stars twinkling above you, or the way that tomorrow the sun will rise and the day will dawn beautiful

She is beautiful, and you love her and it overwhelms you slightly when you realize that the most beautiful thing about her isn't the way her hair glows in the firelight, or the beautiful sound of her laugh, it is the simple fact that she loves you as well.


End file.
